yseulte*

She'd always thought the Shrine rather ugly.

And so naturally, like all unusual and out-of-the-ordinary things, she loved it. Padding through the soft wraiths of pale mist, she's rather surprised to see a figure hovering near the massive structure. Yseulte often lingers near this area of the sheer cliffs to watch the churning sea below while brainstorming crafting possibilities, and most importantly, she comes her to avoid thinking too much.

It's mid-morning, and so there is still a frigid chill lingering in the air and she suddenly longs for the warmth of the bonfires, but knows she will never go near them again. She shudders inwardly at the thought of the tongues of flame, writhing and twisting like a thousand serpents all cast in one pit. She despises fire and the destruction it can cause, and yet has an insatiable hunger to control it, like her father and grand-mother before her. Every day, she must resist the heavy temptation to journey where the Gods' touch lingers, and every day, it is a terrible struggle.

But for now, she distracts herself by pacing towards the stranger, who she very soon recognizes as Torasin, the gentle healer of World's Edge. She did not know him other than a brief "hello" at the bonfires during the herd gathering in the dead cold of Frostfall, but she had recently met his sons. Sweet children. She stops by his side, always uncertain what to say in a situation like this.

His children, they have the same kind, warm eyes. And she notices, like Lace, he and his scaly companion are somber and hollow-eyed. She wilts a little bit inside—everything has been as listless gray as the sea since she's been here. Little happiness is to be found among the residents of the Edge and Yseulte can only stand awkwardly on the outside looking in, experiencing none of the pain and sadness these loyal Edge dwellers suffer. She is not the comforting sort, and so doesn't waste her time and his pretending everything is going to be okay.

She can't comfort, but perhaps she can distract.

In one of her brave, random impulses, she scoops up a last bit of spring snow-slush in her mouth, and then flings it at his neck before wheeling away, peels of laughter rippling from her lips like a bubbling spring. Her eyes have a wicked, playful glint to them, daring him to retaliate.

apprentice craftsman of the edge,